Pregnant King, The (5 page)

Prasenajit asked her once, ‘Do you know why Ileshwar becomes Ileshwari every new moon night?’

‘No,’ said Shilavati.

‘I think because he loves his wife so much they merge into each other with the waxing and waning of the
moon. They are not two, but one, as man and wife should be. As you and I will be.’

Once, while wandering in the woods, they came upon the carcass of a wild buffalo teeming with maggots. ‘How disgusting,’ cringed Shilavati.

‘I don’t think the maggots will agree with you,’ said Prasenajit. Shilavati realized the wisdom in her husband’s simple words. The human way is not the only way in this world.

Prasenajit encouraged Shilavati to use his bow. ‘Women are not allowed,’ she said.

‘Rules are made for the city. In the jungle, desire reigns supreme. You get what you want, if you are willing to fight for it,’ said Prasenajit, showing her how to place the arrow and draw the string.

Shilavati remembered her great joy when she shot her first arrow. The sense of achievement. He picked her up, placed her on his shoulder and ran along the river bank, announcing her victory to the uninterested birds of the forest.

When a year had passed, Shilavati became proficient with the bow but there was no sign of a child. Pruthalashva grew impatient. His queen said, ‘My lord, keep your anxieties to yourself. Don’t burden your son with them. If what the stars speak is the truth then our son has but a few more moons to live. Let him enjoy it in peace.’

Seventeen months after her marriage, Shilavati showed signs of pregnancy. When the midwives confirmed she was with child, Pruthalashva said, ‘Now I can retire into the forest.’

Mandavya dissuaded him. ‘Let the child be born.’

‘How much longer?’ Pruthalashva complained.

The women of the palace celebrated the news by decorating the entire palace with bright orange Genda flowers. They bathed Shilavati, fed her, dressed her, entertained her. They never left her alone. She was not allowed to go on hunts. Shilavati missed the forest.

‘Our son was conceived in the forest,’ Prasenajit told her. ‘Near the bilva tree, when we heard a lion roar, and you were scared.’

Shilavati remembered how Prasenajit distracted her with a kiss. Their love-making, stoked by fear, was passionate and intense. It was in the open, in daylight. But she did not mind. She did not care for the monkeys who stared from the branches overhead or for the peacock she saw creeping up from the corner of her eye. She felt like the Asparas who glide on river streams. Prasenajit was her Gandharva slipping out of a spring flower. There was more pleasure on the forest floor than in the palace bed. She could moan and shout and scream without inhibition. She could make demands. Or submit without embarrassment. She let the soft grass on the forest floor caress her back, her breasts, her thighs, her buttocks as her husband made love to her.

‘Maybe I conceived a daughter,’ said Shilavati.

‘I am too much of a man to father a girl. Even the stars agree, Bharya,’ said Prasenajit.

Then, he died. Her dear friend. Her beloved husband, the only one who could call her Bharya. Leaving Shilavati all alone.

It happened in the palace. In the safe space guarded by Kshatriyas. A serpent slipped in unnoticed. Prasenajit stepped on it as he got out of bed, just as the astrologer predicted in the eighteenth year of his life, two years after his marriage, two months before the birth of his son.

The fangs struck and the poison spread. He was blue before anyone got to him. ‘My son, my son, oh my son…’ Pruthalashva cried and collapsed. He could not bring himself to cremate his son. The Kshatriya elders had to substitute for him.

The men wept, the women wailed, the whole palace crumbled in sorrow. Shilavati felt Yama’s hook striking her heart. ‘This is written in your account book,’ said the god of death without expression. She refused to submit to the pain. She would not give Yama the satisfaction of watching her tears roll. But then, did Yama care? Even the rolling of tears would be just another entry in his account book.

She ignored Yama. She looked at the world around her. It was being washed away by waves of grief. She would not let it. She had to hold things together. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She saw her husband being dragged by Yama’s noose out of Vallabhi through the forests across the river Vaitarni into the desolate land of the dead. He was screaming, shouting, resisting, calling out her name. ‘Shilavati. Shilavati.’ All she could do was turn away in helplessness, open her eyes and look at all those who came to console her.

‘How tragic, how terrible, how horrible,’ they said.

Watching the young widow bear it all stoically the Brahmanas and the Kshatriyas and the Vaishyas and the Shudras of Vallabhi broke down. Shilavati comforted
all of them. She had to survive this tragedy. She had to. For her son. For her family. For her kingdom.

A royal widow must shave her head, renounce all jewellery and cosmetics and wear only undyed fabric. Without a husband, she has no reason to adorn her body. But Shilavati was not allowed to shave her head or renounce her jewellery or wear colourless clothes. Dressed in red and laden with gold, she was led by the Brahmanas to the throne. Milk was poured on her. Then honey. Then treacle. Then water. This was the raj-abhishekha that bestows on the king authority over the lives of other men.

The old king Pruthashva had renounced the kingdom after the death of his son. He had refused to listen to the arguments and requests of the Kshatriya council. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Let me go. Now you have someone with you who wants to rule. I leave the fate of Vallabhi and the Turuvasus in my daughter-in-law’s very capable hands.’

The royal priests held the ivory parasol over Shilavati’s head and placed the golden bow in her hand. The Brahmanas sat to her left, the Kshatriyas to her right, behind her were the Shudras, before her the Vaishyas. The warriors blew their conch-shell trumpets and held aloft the Turuvasu banner on the rooftops. Chieftains paid her obeisance. From the chambers overlooking the central courtyard, the women showered flowers.

Mandavya came with a bowl of red vermillion paste. Shilavati raised her head to receive the royal mark on her forehead. Mandavya bent down and with his finger traced the tilak vertically upwards from just above her navel, taking her by surprise. She looked at Mandavya. He stayed focused on her navel.

It was then that Shilavati realized that the parasol, the bow, the conch-shell trumpets, the banners, the obeisance and the flowers were not for her. They were all for him who was inside her, she realized. The unborn prince. The future king of Vallabhi. Her son, Yuvanashva.

Before Yuvanashva was born, the elders were anxious. ‘What if Shilavati gives birth to a girl? Or an unhealthy imperfect child?’ asked the Kshatriya elders. ‘Who then will be our king?’

Shilavati had replied, placing a stone on her heart, ‘The master may be dead but the field still belongs to him. Like the wives of Vichitra-virya, queens of Hastinapuri, who offered their wombs to Vyasa, after the death of their husband, I will offer my womb to a worthy Rishi. From his seed placed without emotion or attachment will come the king we seek.’ The council saluted the young widow. She was indeed wise. Well versed in matters of dharma.

Shilavati was relieved when she gave birth to her son. As she held him in her arms she remembered her husband’s words, ‘I am too much of a man to father a daughter.’ She smiled, then wept.

Shilavati avoided the pillared maha-sabha of the Turuvasu kings. There she had to sit on a silver pedestal with green cushions placed lower than the gold throne with red cushions. She decided to manage the affairs of Vallabhi from a chamber located in the women’s quarters. Here she sat on the floor, on a tiger-skin rug,
but nothing was placed above her. The maha-sabha was reserved for ceremonial and festive occasions. The golden bow, the ivory parasol and the yak-tail fly whisks were placed on the red cushions, reminding all that Vallabhi still had no king, only a regent.

Yuvanashva’s cradle was placed in Shilavati’s audience chamber. This disturbed the Brahmana and Kshatriya elders initially as they were not used to a leader who nursed a child while discussing matters of dharma.

Guided by Mandavya, Shilavati carried out her role as ruler and mother with aplomb. She organized the annual cow-giving ceremony for the Brahmana elders while putting Yuvanashva to sleep. She permitted the Vaishya elders to burn a forest on the western bank of the Kalindi for a new farmland while feeding her toothless son a meal of bananas. She gave the Shudra elders instructions to build a new gate for Vallabhi while Yuvanashva chewed on her hair. She decided the rate of tax while playing hide and seek. The ministers and advisors gradually got used to this and even started participating in the raising of the prince. A time came when the eldest Kshatriya, commander of the army, could discuss the need to organize an archery tournament to select guards for the palace while tying Yuvanashva’s dhoti.

When she was eighteen, Shilavati organized an elephant hunt. ‘There are no metal mines in Vallabhi. We can sell the captured elephants to the king of Anga for his gold and copper,’ she said. An elephant hunt demands many resources and complex organization: digging of vast pits to serve as traps, the beating of gigantic drums to scare the elephants into the trap,
torturing and forcing the leader of the herd into submission. Shilavati supervised it all. Her success earned her the respect of Vallabhi’s Kshatriya elders, who at first thought she would merely be a figurehead.

Like any good king in Ila-vrita, Shilavati appointed a network of spies who posed as bards and who knew all that happened in Ila-vrita. These ‘eyes of Varuna’ as they were sometimes called told her of the strange ceremony by which Drupada had become father of twins: a boy and a girl. ‘From the yagna’s fire-pit, the two Siddhas, Yaja and Upayaja, churned out for the king of Panchala the children Shiva had long ago promised him.’

‘But did Ileshwari not give Drupada a son?’ asked Shilavati.

‘But not quite the son, he wanted,’ said the spies. ‘On Shikhandi’s wedding night, his bride had come out of the bedchamber screaming that her husband had no manhood, that he was a woman. The bride’s father, the king of Dasharni, was so angry that he sent his chief concubine to check if this was true. The concubine contradicted the bride and insisted Shikhandi was a man. The words of the wife, however, did confirm something that had long been whisphered on the streets of Panchala: that the son of Drupada was no son at all, that he would never be allowed to enter a battlefield and so could never kill either Drona or Bhisma. A desperate Drupada approached Yaja and Upayaja, two Siddhas, and had begged them to perform a yagna through which Shiva’s boon would be realized. He wanted the children who would destroy Drona and Bhisma and divide the house of Kurus. After a long and complex ceremony, the two sages drew out from
beneath the embers of the altar a fully grown woman now called Draupadi and a fully grown man now called Dhristadhyumna.’

‘The king of Panchala manipulates cosmic forces in his desire for vengeance. The consequences will not be good,’ said Mandavya.

‘I agree,’ said Shilavati. Her father always told her that in crisis change your mind, not the world. Its easier. Simpler. Safer.

As ruler, Shilavati was responsible for ensuring everybody followed varna-ashrama-dharma and conducted themselves in accordance with their station in society and stage in life. She was constantly in touch with the elders of the four varnas making sure that all was well in the kingdom. That wealth poured inwards, not outwards. That there were enough lakes and tanks in the villages so that one did not depend on the whimsical rains. She organized festivals and fairs around Ileshwara at different times of the year, attracting more pilgrims and with them more wealth. She resolved conflicts between the varnas and received envoys of neighbouring kings. All those who came to the palace, were looked after by the royal mother. Vast amounts of food were cooked in the royal kitchens to feed them.

Had it not been for Shilavati, this small principality would have been swallowed by neighbouring kings as soon as her husband died. She secured the kingdom’s boundaries by allowing the royal horse of rival kings ride through her kingdom when they performed the Ashwamedha sacrifice, a gesture that symbolically expressed her submission to the horse’s master. This allegiance to multiple kings ensured no one claimed exclusive rights over Vallabhi, for while the kings were
not afraid of a widow-queen, they were wary of each other. Shilavati was left alone provided she paid them a handsome tribute once a year.

Vallabhi could afford these tributes. The peace that followed Shilavati’s policy of submission had made it prosperous. No sugarcane harvest on the banks of the Kalindi was ever destroyed by marauding armies. Caravans of traders and pilgrims on its highways, making their way to the many festivals and fairs organized by Shilavati, feared no attack. The granaries of Vallabhi overflowed with grain. Stables were full of cows, horses and elephants.

When Brahmanas complained that peace and submission was making the warrior clans restless, Shilavati addressed the Kshatriya elders, ‘Kingship is not about winning wars. It is about maintaining order. Order is dharma and dharma is Vishnu. Vishnu holds in his hands not only the conch-shell trumpet of war but also the lotus of diplomacy. Diplomacy has served us well. It may not have brought glory but it has brought stability. In Vallabhi, Vishnu does not ride the hawk of war; he reclines in peace on the serpent of time. At his feet, seated on the lotus of diplomacy, is Lakshmi, the goddess of fortune, blessing us all.’

The Kshatriyas agreed.

Shilavati told her son, ‘If you want Lakshmi to follow you, be a Vishnu. Do your duty. Don’t run after glory.’

Yuvanashva obeyed.

Ideally, at the age of seven, a prince is sent to the hermitage of an Acharya where he is educated with Kshatriyas and Brahmana boys his age. There he stays, serving his teacher, living and learning with him all year round, returning home only during the rains. But Shilavati broke from tradition. She appealed to Mandavya, ‘He is the last of the Turuvasus. I don’t want him in any danger. I don’t want him out of my sight.’

And so all the best of the Acharyas in and around Vallabhi were invited to the palace to educate the prince. A new section was added to the palace to serve as the royal school. To give the prince company, young Kshatriya and Brahmana boys were invited to stay with him. Their families agreed willingly. Amongst them was Vipula, Mandavya’s son, who became Yuvanashva’s best friend.

Every day, the prince was encouraged to run, wrestle, lift weights, climb on poles, regulate his breath, make his limbs nimble by performing asanas. Masseurs were engaged to relax his tired limbs, to make his bones strong and joints flexible. At dusk each day, the Veda was chanted in his presence so that the potent power of the hymns shaped his thoughts. He was taught how to string a bow, shoot arrows, use the spear and the sword. He learnt to wrestle and ride chariots and fight with the mace. Acharyas were appointed to teach him statecraft and economics and politics. He was also taught to appreciate the arts, music and painting, the smell of fragrances, the flavour of food. ‘The future
king must know the importance of dharma. Of rites, rituals and rules. He must also appreciate the value of sensory delights. For what is life without indulging the flesh,’ said his teachers.

Every evening, Yuvanashva would go to his mother’s chamber to eat. Shilavati preferred cooking for her son herself. Her maids cut the vegetables, cleaned the grains, washed the meat and prepared the spices but it was she who did the cooking. Boiling, frying, roasting, steaming. A delight for her son every day.

Yuvanashva would refuse to eat alone. ‘You must eat with me mother,’ he would say.

A plate of gold would be kept before the prince. A banana leaf before the queen. When Yuvanashva asked why, the maids replied, ‘Your mother has no husband. She must eat simply.’

‘But my mother is queen. She must eat like one. Get her a plate of gold.’ The prince had spoken. A plate of gold was brought and Shilavati ate from it. ‘And you will eat meat and fish and all the wonderful things you cook for me,’ he ordered his mother.

Shilavati hugged Yuvanashva. ‘I would love to. But it burns my stomach. I prefer fruit and water and some rice with milk,’ she said. A lie. Because she yearned for meat and fish and the spicy dishes she cooked for her son. She kept away from them because they kept her awake all night and made her body ache with desire for the man who was now in the land of Yama.

Yuvanashva adored his mother. Every evening, after his meal, he would tell her all that he had experienced that day. How he had learnt to string the bow and how he learnt to stand up straight and throw a spear even when the chariot moved at full speed. Shilavati heard
all that her son had to say. She adored him too.

In the tradition of her fathers, Shilavati would tell her son all that happened in court in the form of the riddles of the Sixty-four Yoginis. Story after story. Riddle after riddle. Some of his answers would make her proud, some would make her frown, some made her laugh.

‘How many of the questions do you know answers to?’ he asked her once.

‘Not all,’ she replied, caressing his head.

‘I think you know most. If you were a man, you would surely have been a Chakra-varti.’

Shilavati hugged her son. ‘Thrones are for men, my little king,’ she said, her heart brimming with affection.

Yuvanashva realized it pleased his mother when he obeyed her. So he obeyed her, doing all that she said without question. There were days when he wanted to swim, but he would stay in the palace and read aloud the verses from the dharma-shastras. There were times when he wanted to play the flute. ‘That’s not appropriate for kings,’ she would say. He would immediately put the flute down.